The Man Who Came to Dinner
by sparra-music
Summary: Before Col. Hogan arrived, LeBeau and Newkirk welcomed an American into their group. Here's a portion of his backstory.


The Man Who Came to Dinner

"Pierre, there is a new man in camp. I saw him getting off the truck."

"Aw, shove off, Louis, there's a new man in camp twice a week." Newkirk plunged his hands back into his pockets with every intention of continuing to plan his next escape attempt.

"Oui, Pierre, I know, but this one… I do not know the uniform. He is different, compris?"

"You don't know the uniform? 'Zat mean you don't know 'cause 'e's an officer, or you don't know 'cause 'e's some diff'rent army?"

"Mon pot, if I knew that, do you think I would be asking you to come and take a look?"

"Well, p'rhaps I better see this feller after all."

"If we are quick, we shall probably see him coming out of the Kommandant's office."

The two POWs were indeed just quick enough to get across camp to see a young man being half marched, half pulled along out of the kommandantur by Schultz. The young man was looking around him without appearing to actually see anything, his face a mask of confusion.

"Blimey, look at that poor sod. 'e looks like 'e doesn't even know how 'e got here."

"And so young. He is practically un enfant."

Following Schultz into the barracks, they saw him guide the man to sit at the table—he had to be prompted to sit down on the bench, as he was still looking about as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The lost expression on the young man's face had Louis feeling rather compassionate towards him, so he filled a cup with some coffee—or what passed for coffee in their barracks, anyway—and handed it to the young man. "Here, mon ami."

"Thanks," the young brunette murmured.

"You're welcome. It's not much, but perhaps it will hold you until dinner, non?"

"Dinner?" For some reason, the man's face seemed to crumble at the mere mention of the meal, and he broke down into tears.

"'ere now," broke in Newkirk, "I know sauerkraut and potatoes are nothing to look forward to, but at least we'll be fed."

"I think he's the first one I've ever seen cry over dinner _before_ he's tried the Krauts' cooking," joked one of the British airmen on the bunk.

"I'm sorry," the man said as he wiped his face with a gloved hand. "It's just that yesterday I was eating dinner at High Wycombe—my very first English meal, and the night before that, I was still back in the States…"

"You're a Yank?" Newkirk exclaimed. "D'jou 'ear that, mates? The Yanks 'ave entered the war!"

"More than just the Eagle Squadrons, you mean," Bailey commented. "They've been in Britain over a year now."

"I wouldn't get too excited," the newcomer said, slumping his shoulders even further. "The U.S. hasn't officially entered the war yet… President Roosevelt just decided to 'lend' the Brits 20 bombers and the crews to go with them."

Disappointed grumbling was heard from a number of bunks.

"And my plane got shot down on her first mission. Some help we are!" The new man rubbed his face with one hand.

"At least your heart was in the right place, mon ami," said Louis gently. "Your country has not been threatened yet, but you have come to help us in our fight against the Boche, so you can't be all that bad."

"Didn't you 'ear what 'e said, Louis? 'e got shot down on 'is very first mission? What kind of good's that gonna do us?"

"Pierre! Just because he was shot down, does not mean that his bombers did not destroy their target. And even if they didn't, his plane was not the only one!"

"Alright, alright, Louis, calm down." Newkirk raised his hands placatingly. "But I sure 'ope 'is mates have better luck than 'e has."

"Yeah, sounds like you've had a pretty rough go of it," chimed in Bailey. "You couldn't have been in England more than 12 hours."

"Less, I think, although it's hard to tell. We flew in, bunked down for 8 hours, got briefed on our mission, ate, and then flew out… I'm not even completely sure of my CO's name—I think it might have been Clemons, or Clement, or something like that, but I only heard it once, maybe twice."

"Blimey," breathed Newkirk, "no wonder you look so dazed."

"Yeah, well when I volunteered to ship out to Europe, you can bet this wasn't what I had in mind."

"Well, now you're here, you might as well rest up for a few days before you try escaping."

"Escaping? Is there a chance at that?" The young man's eyes brightened. "Are you planning to break out of camp?"

"Isn't he always?" Bailey asked, causing laughter to be heard throughout the barracks.

"Huh?" the newcomer looked at the blond corporal on the bunk as if to ask what that meant, and the former Hurricane pilot filled him in.

"Newkirk and LeBeau over there have spent more time in the cooler for attempted escape than they have in the barracks. Newkirk only just got out this morning after his—what is it? sixth?—attempt in the two months he's been here. And there's talk that the next time he tries is, it's going to be 30 days, not a week."

"Have you ever actually made it out of camp?" asked the newcomer eagerly.

"Only once, but a farmer caught us. Wish I'd've been able to speak some German, I might've been able to bluff me way out of it."

"I could help you with that, if you take me with you," the young man offered.

"Oh?" inquired Newkirk, suddenly suspicious. "You speak Kraut, do you? And just what's your name?" he added in a biting tone, "Fritz?"

"Brian Olsen," came the somewhat belligerent answer as the young man got to his feet. "And I speak German because my Oma and Opa always have. They've lived in North Dakota for at least fifty years… you got a problem with that?"

"Calmez-vous!" Louis interrupted. "We are all on the same side here!" Turning to face Newkirk more directly, he added, "Besides, even if he is a Bosche spy, if he can teach us German, would that not help us?"

"You may be right, Louis." Newkirk crossed his arms and looked appraisingly across the table at the sergeant in the bomber jacket. "You may be right. But," he added, looking directly at Olsen, "that doesn't mean I trust you. Not yet, anyways."

Over the months that followed, however, Newkirk and LeBeau would come to trust Olsen with their lives, and vice versa. And Olsen's German skills would indeed come in handy, both in the language classes he taught, and in his work as the Heroes' 'Outside Man'.

Across the sea, the airmen stationed at High Wycombe as part of the Eighth Air Force never knew what happened to Olsen—indeed, they hadn't even had time to learn his name, and he was known around the base as 'the man who came to dinner'.

Author's Note:

I've based Olsen's backstory about arriving on an airbase, going on a raid, and being shot down all within 12 hours on the true story of an 8th Air Force pilot. He arrived, was briefed on the night's mission, ate supper, flew off and was shot down…. And no one even knew his name. He was referred to afterwards by the other airmen as "the man who came to dinner". I've chosen to give this unnamed pilot the happy ending of being captured and becoming one of Hogan's men, rather than being a true POW or KIA, although either one of those could have happened to the real "man who came to dinner". I have also moved the story ahead in time, since the real "man who came to dinner" was shot down in fall of 1943. I imagine that such a thing could have happened more than once, and in more than one place.


End file.
